Michelle felt fantastic.
Her heels clicked purposefully against the hotel floor, her hips swaying with confidence she never knew was possible. She held her head high, raven-black hair cascading down her shoulders, her pencil skirt hugging her figure like it was tailored just for her. Everything about her exuded strength and maturity—and it felt good.
Better than good. It felt right.
The more time she spent in this body, the less she thought of herself as Mikey. She couldn’t even imagine going back to cartoons or school playgrounds. Now, she walked with poise, felt the air kiss her smooth skin, felt her intelligence sharpen, like numbers and strategy and power had taken root in her brain.
And that’s when she saw it.
Across the hallway, dazed and awkward, stood a little boy wearing her former body. That was Mikey—her old self—except it wasn’t. She watched his lip curl in frustration, clearly annoyed, eyes darting nervously as if searching for an adult to make sense of all this.
Michelle’s perfectly shaped eyebrows lifted. She knew that look. She used to see it in mirrors every morning.
A smirk tugged at her lips as she stepped forward.
“Lost, sweetheart?” she asked, voice velvety smooth and calm.
The little boy frowned up at her. “I—I don’t know what’s going on. I was just—then that man stuck this tag on me and now I’m…”
His voice trailed off. He seemed too overwhelmed to articulate. His small hands tugged at his too-long sleeves.
Michelle knelt down slowly, one manicured hand gently brushing the boy’s hair aside. “Daddy?”
The boy blinked. “What?”
She leaned in close, smiling warmly. “It’s me. Mikey. Or rather—Michelle, now.”
His mouth dropped open. “Michelle?! That’s you?”
Michelle gave a short, elegant nod. “Sure is. And you...you’ve got my old body. So that means… you’re me now, Dad.”
He stared at her—at the height difference, at the confidence in her posture, the softness of her features, the casual grace of her presence. “This is… impossible,” he muttered.
“I know.” Michelle stood and smoothed out her blouse. “And yet, here we are.”
Before he could protest further, she bent low again, scooping him up with practiced ease. Her old limbs—now his—kicked once in protest.
“H-Hey! What are you doing?”
“Carrying my son,” Michelle said with a grin, shifting him comfortably into her arms.
“I am not—! Michelle, put me down!”
“Shhh.” She tapped his nose playfully. “That’s no way to talk to your mother.”
“I’m your father,” he growled, but it came out more like a frustrated whimper.
“Not this week.” She smirked, adjusting her hold as he instinctively leaned into her chest for balance. “This week, I’m running the show. And you’re in my care, little man.”
He squirmed a bit, opened his mouth to argue—but then paused. Her embrace was warm. Her perfume was comforting. Her arms, strong but feminine, cradled him in a way he’d never admit was… oddly reassuring. And for a split second, a dangerous thought crossed his mind.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
She could feel him relax slightly and smiled to herself. “That’s more like it. Come on, let’s go to the flat. I want to see if Jon—sorry, Jennifer now—and Linda made it back already.”
He sighed but didn’t fight. “Fine. Just don’t make me wear anything pink.”
Michelle laughed, the sound light and confident. “No promises, darling.”
And with that, the woman who had once been the youngest in the family carried her now-child father confidently toward their rented apartment. The role reversal was complete—for now.
And that just left Zoe.
